This Week’s Moment of Happiness Despite the News

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

I’m asked all the time now how I am, and how Olivia is, and how my big kids are, and my granddaughter. But if I’ve been asked how the pets are, how they are dealing with Michael’s disappearance, I honestly don’t remember, which means it’s been rare. But I’ve watched them – particularly Ursula. Oliver, our new orange kitty, only knew Michael for a few weeks before he went off to the hospital for the last time.

Besides losing Michael this year, we also lost our fat orange bowling ball polydactyl cat, Edgar Allen Paw, and the inimitable little gray cat, Muse. The cats died first, Edgar, then Muse. They died five weeks apart from each other, and as I was neck-deep in what was going on with Michael, it just felt like blow after blow.

Edgar was fourteen. In the last year, he’d suddenly had fits of his back legs falling limp and useless. But they always came back. The vet was baffled. And then one morning, the legs simply left for good. Our home is a danger for a cat who can only use his front legs…there are stairs and concrete floors. I didn’t wait for a horrible death to happen. I helped Edgar on his way.

Michael was still in the hospital when Edgar died. I hesitated over if I should tell him, as his memory and even his present day observations were still off. But I told him anyway…and he seized onto it. He talked about Edgar, and truly, memories of Edgar and Michael’s sadness at losing him seemed to help him get grounded in reality again.

Michael finally came home, after six weeks in the hospital and three in rehab. Muse, the little gray cat, would not leave him alone. As soon as he sat, he had a cat. Muse was well known for understanding where things hurt. She would lay with me in bed and knead and knead my back if it was sore, my hip if it was sore, my knee if it was sore…and when I had a foot cramp, she’d lay on the foot until the cramp went away. Now, on Michael, she draped herself over whatever she could reach.

Late at night on her 20^th birthday, Muse suddenly gave an ungodly yowl from down the hall. I found her on her side, with fluid all around her. It is unclear what happened, but the vet said it was cerebrospinal fluid. I ran her to the emergency vet, and I came home without Muse.

Which leaves Ursula, our dog. Ursula is a rescue, a dog who came here from Alabama, after living most of her life in an outdoor kennel, having litters of puppies. She was high anxiety, and still is, even after four years. During the time Michael was gone after his accident, she was restless and unsure. She looked out the window for him to come home from the bus garage. She was puzzled when it was me who brought her out to do her business in the early morning and the late night. I gave her the shirt that was cut off of Michael by the paramedics and she slept with it.

Then one cat after another disappeared. In between, Michael came home. Ursula took up a station by his side, either sitting by his recliner or on the end of the couch. In the morning, when she and I would come downstairs, the first stop had to be in Livvy’s room, where Michael was sleeping as he couldn’t do the stairs. Ursy sat there while I got her medication, and after taking her outside, she would stay in the room by Michael until he got himself up and out to the living room. As he rolled his walker, she walked in front of him, backwards, watching his every step.

And then…Michael disappeared. He was originally gone for 9 weeks, to the hospital and the rehab. He had a one week return trip to the hospital after he came home. And then he went back and didn’t come home. He’s been gone now for 14 weeks, longer than he was at the hospital. I was planning on bringing Ursula to the hospice, but Michael was gone before I could get her there.

The shirt that she slept with was thrown away after Michael got home. All of his laundry was washed and dried. I couldn’t think of anything to give her at first, but then remembered the pillow I had made for Michael, out of a photo of Ursula. Michael slept with it, in the rehab, at home, in the hospital, and in hospice, with it tucked under his cheek or his neck.

Ursula sleeps with it all the time now.

By the way, before Michael went into the hospital for the last time, Oliver showed up. Michael and Olivia came with me to the humane society to meet him. Michael was in a wheelchair. By the time Michael disappeared from our home, Oliver, who was shy with men, was sitting on his lap.

When Michael went into the hospital for the last time, Ursula quit sleeping in her spot on the couch. Even when Michael rested on the couch, he made sure his legs and feet left room for a 59 pound dog to have her corner. That corner of the couch, closest to the fireplace, became Ursula’s soon after she came home with us. There’s a pillow there, and three special stuffed animals. Ursula tears apart all stuffed animals, except for these…she sleeps with them. All of them were picked out by Michael, from Menards, when he worked there.

There is a rainbow-striped monkey, named (by Michael) Pride Monkey.

There is a black and white panda, named Intolerant Panda.

And there is a moose, named…Moose. Michael loved moose. They were his favorite animal.

Throughout the long hospitalization and the rehab stay, Ursula slept in her corner of the couch. She scrunched there with Michael when he was home. She slept there when he went in for the short time before coming home again. But when he went in for what we didn’t know was the last time, Ursula stayed off the couch. She slept instead on the floor, in front of the coffee table. She slept there for his entire last hospital stay and his five days in rehab. And she’s been there for fourteen weeks since his death.

Until last night.

I was watching the Love Boat, the show Michael and I were watching together, because we were supposed to be going on a cruise for our 25^th anniversary. Ursula suddenly stood up, stretched, glanced at Michael’s urn on the piano, and then jumped onto the couch. She nestled her head between the stuffed animals, her friends, given to her by Michael. And she stayed there the rest of the night.

I thought of last week, when I froze on the stairs, realizing I’d gone three days without crying. And now…my dog was back where she was supposed to be.

I still reached out and patted Michael’s empty recliner, next to me. I called out to Ursula, “What a good girl, Ursy!” and received a tail thump.

And then I breathed a sigh of relief. The humans aren’t the only ones who have been suffering.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

I was halfway up the stairs from the first to the second floor of my home when I realized. I stopped on the step.

It was eight o’clock in the evening. I hadn’t cried that day.

I leaned against the railing and reeled my mind backwards. When was the last time I remembered crying?

Sunday. On Sunday, I first drove to a grief support group meeting. When I got there, there was no one in the parking lot. I wandered around the church, trying every door. All were locked. I felt utterly abandoned. I couldn’t even get to a grief support group! (I found out later, when the facilitator called me, that there are two churches with the same name in that town. My GPS brought me to the wrong one.)

I cried in the car, then pulled myself together and told myself I should go get the grocery shopping done. Grocery shopping, and cooking, used to be done by Michael. I hate grocery shopping, and I don’t know how to cook.

I reminded myself that there was a Packers game that afternoon, so at least the grocery store should be mercifully free of crowds and quiet. Instead, when I got to the store, the parking lot was almost full. Inside, it was a madhouse, people and shopping carts everywhere, the volume so high, I couldn’t even hear the muzak.

The Packers apparently played early in the afternoon. Now, everyone was here.

Every aisle was like a traffic jam. Kids were screaming, parents were yelling, customers were getting pushy as they tried to get through and get through fast. I had to go to a back corner several times just to breathe, to ward off a panic attack. When I finally got to the check-out, the line with the fewest number of people in front of me was six deep.

Six deep. Just like they say a grave is six feet deep. Six feet under.

And loss was all around me again.

I got out of line, ran for the bathrooms, parked my cart (please, nobody take it and make me start over!), and ran into a stall. And cried.

Awful. The whole thing was awful. But there, on my stairs, I realized that day was the last time I cried. And that was three days before.

Since Michael died, I haven’t had a single day without tears. I haven’t had a single day when I haven’t thought, How am I going to do this? Until now. When I suddenly went for three days without tears, and three days of just moving ahead, one step after another, after a veritable storm of tears.

That day, three days ago in the empty church parking lot and in the grocery store, the thing I remember thinking, over and over again, repeating it to myself, is “This is never going to be over. I am never going to be okay again.”

Standing on my stairs, as I counted the days without tears, I was flooded with a sense of hope.

Maybe I will be okay again.

Being a writer, I noticed the tense that my thoughts took. I will be okay again. Not I am okay now. Not yet. But that will be was such a big step from never.

Climbing the rest of the way upstairs was much easier. I had a lighter step.

And yes, being a writer, I saw the metaphor in that too.

That was Wednesday (yesterday). I didn’t make it through today without tears (I’ve been dealing with my health insurance company, my doctor, and the drugstore – something I would have typically left to Michael, because he was better at yelling at people!), but I know, from that moment on the step, that moment of hope, that moment of happiness, that this doesn’t mean that never is in force.

Since Michael’s death, when people have asked me if I’m okay, my answer has been a steady, “It depends on the moment.” I’m changing my answer. It’s now, “No, but I will be.”

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

I left the little house in Waldport, Oregon, on Sunday morning, to drive into Portland, where I began my flight home on Monday. Before I left the house, I went for my final walk. I realized I hadn’t seen any whales on this trip. On the majority of my previous trips, if not all, I’ve seen whales. Last year, there was a whale party going on one day and I sat on the deck and watched whale tail after whale tail, breach after breach. There is a whale tail on the cover of my most recent book, Hope Always Rises, and seeing the real whales right there in front of me, I didn’t even need binoculars, just took my breath away.

So realizing I hadn’t seen them made me a little miffed. But then a brown head surfaced next to me in the ocean. It disappeared, it came back, it disappeared, it came back. It kept pace with me.

A sea lion joined me on my walk and I laughed out loud.

He continued with me until I turned to go back to the little house and my waiting car. Then he disappeared.

Before the visit from the sea lion, I was in tears. Again. I am getting very, very tired of tears. I swear my skin is dry because of the constant onslaught of salt. But then, thanks to the sea lion, I laughed, and when I gave my last wave to the ocean, I was smiling.

Then I set off on the journey home. Waldport to Portland, overnight, Portland airport to Salt Lake City to home.

Whenever I first arrive at the little house, I walk or run through to the sliding doors, throw them open, step out on the deck, and gasp when I see the ocean. Always, always, the gasp. The first time, I wasn’t surprised. I was seeing the ocean, it was in my back yard, and oh so glorious! But time after time, even though I know the ocean is there, even though I see it on my drive from the moment I race down the mountain and burst out through the forest to find the coast spread out before me, from Newport to Waldport, and even though I can see it through the sliding doors, my reaction is the same. I gasp, and I bring both hands to my mouth. The awe and love and admiration I feel each time, even when it became familiar, is overwhelming. My reaction is spontaneous.

I always cry upon leaving too. Though this year, that sadness was heavier than usual.

My plane didn’t land on Monday night until 9:30. By then, I was exhausted and stiff. The Milwaukee airport was emptier than I’d ever seen it before – no one waiting for flights, all the stores and kiosks closed up. I plodded my way through the airport and when I turned onto the final aisle that would lead me to the terminal, I began to look ahead.

I was being picked up by my son  Andy and my daughter Olivia. I watched for them and I couldn’t see them. When I stepped into the terminal, I looked all around and still didn’t see them. But then they stood up.

And I gasped.

Familiar to me as can be, one child 38, the other almost 24. I knew they’d be there. Just like I knew the ocean would be there, each and every time, and I gasp anyway. The awe and love and admiration I feel each time, ever since the day each was born, even when they became familiar, is overwhelming.

So here is my ocean at home. Which makes my home as lovely as the little house in Waldport, with the big ocean in the back yard.

Sons Christopher and Andy. Daughters Katie and Olivia. Grandgirl Maya Mae. Son-in-law Nick, daughter-in-law Amber. And of course, my daughter-by-proxy Rayne, who I’ve known since she was in high school with my big kids (Christopher, Andy, Katie), and who I stayed with in Portland.

I was greeted with hugs. And then that sibling dialogue that every mother of multiples knows so well:

ANDY: You’ll never guess what Olivia did.

OLIVIA: Shut up!

38 and 24.

I think that we always need to be aware of who is still in our lives. Who is always there, who greets us with hugs, who can say things that you know they’re going to say. Who makes you gasp. Even when, and maybe especially when, you know through every layer of yourself that someone is missing.

That pain can make you gasp too. I am often feeling breathless.

But this other gasp, this gasp for the ocean, and the gasp for my kids, is filled with a joy that allows me to exhale and then just keep on breathing.

I have the ocean there. I have my human ocean here.

Gasp!

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

When I went to bed last night and when I woke up this morning, my last and first thoughts were about what I was going to write about this week. Nothing really stood out to me. There were some good days and there were some bad days, and then there were some really awful days, which seems to be the pattern grief takes on. I relished the good days, I plodded through the bad days, and on the really awful days, I took three showers, standing in the comforting heat of the drumming water and soaking myself in tears.

During breakfast, I thought I came up with an idea. Then I checked my emails, took yet another shower, and prepared for my walk. Right before I left, I noticed someone left a comment under one of the many photos I posted of the Oregon coast. This one showed a path in the sand made by some sort of vehicle, and I pondered if it was showing me the way to go. Someone asked, “Will it lead to a sand dollar?” I answered, “Hasn’t yet, but I didn’t ask for one this year either.” I headed out the door.

For those that don’t know, sand dollars have provided some stellar moments for me here in this exact spot. One year, when I came here feeling thoroughly defeated, thoroughly useless, and like I’d wasted my whole life, I had a yell-at-the-ocean moment in which I asked what the world wanted from me, and then I said, “If I am on the right path, if I am doing what I’m supposed to be doing, then let me find a whole sand dollar. A WHOLE sand dollar. Not a broken one.” A few nights later, on a foggy night, I was walking next to the ocean and heading back to the little house. An old man appeared out of the fog, walked right up to me, got in my face, and asked if I’d found a whole sand dollar. He reached in his pocket and pulled out three and told me to choose one. I did. I never saw him again.

Then, the year after I had breast cancer, I came here again and yelled at the ocean. “You didn’t tell me my path was going to include cancer!” I yelled. “If I’m going to be okay, then this time, let ME find the whole sand dollar.” On my last morning here, I walked out to the ocean to say goodbye. I felt a bump on my toe and found a small whole sand dollar, washed right up to me.

During the breast cancer year, a friend came out to the west coast, not in the same place as I come, but close. He said he was looking out at the ocean, thinking of me, when he felt a bump against his bare foot. He looked down and found a sand dollar, which he brought back to me.

So sand dollars mean a lot. But this year, when I got here, I didn’t say anything to the ocean at first. Finally, I just said, “What the hell?” and then I started moving through my two and a half weeks here. I did not ask for a sand dollar. It would take, I thought, a lot more than a sand dollar to make me feel better. To make me feel that what happened this year in any way was supposed to happen.

This is, without a doubt, the worst year of my life.

So this morning, I headed out on my walk, thinking I knew what I was going to write about in this blog, and having answered that, no, I hadn’t found a sand dollar and I hadn’t asked for one.

It was a noisy night last night, and when I stepped onto the beach, I found that the tide came up very far, farther than I’ve ever seen it. It left the beach filled with detritus, huge clumps of seaweed, logs of driftwood, dead jellyfish, crab shells, rocks, clumps that may have once been sea birds. The sand was very uneven, boggy in places, hard in others, and I had to be very careful where I stepped. So I moved more slowly than normal, and my eyes roved often from the waves to the ground in front of me. I torqued my right hip a couple days before coming here, and it was just starting to feel better. I didn’t want to get hurt.

Moving slowly, not wanting to get hurt, but aching with an ache that feels like it will never go away, my eyes were drawn to a small white disk. I knew what it was before I bent to pick it up.

The teeniest, tiniest, slimmest, most fragile of sand dollars. Whole. But no bigger than my thumbnail.

For a moment, I stood there, looking out at the ocean. I thought about throwing the sand dollar as hard as I could, losing it again to the sea. I thought about dropping it back to the sand and then grinding it under my heel.

I mean, you’ve got to be kidding me. What the hell?

In the end, though, I cupped it in the palm of my hand and curled my fingers over it. I carried it for the rest of my walk and then back. As I passed the place where I found it, I saw that the water had come in and rolled over it. If I’d come by a few minutes later, I would never have seen the sand dollar.

Before I climbed the steps up the bluff and to the little house, I turned and faced the ocean. Her waves were reaching out.

“Thank you,” I said.

Maybe I’m going to feel better, little by little.

Hope always rises, people.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

This last Saturday, I traveled to the Oregon coast, to the little house I’ve stayed in at least once a year since 2006. It is as familiar to me as my own home. The back yard is the ocean. There is a writing nook with a wide-open window that allows me to glance up at the waves in between words. The owners of the house keep a bookshelf in the nook that displays all of my books. And I needed this place more this year than ever before.

It is a place where I come face to face with who I am, without all the roles I’ve taken on over the years.

My daughter Olivia has come with me here several times, but my husband Michael only once, on my second year here in 2007. I see him still, standing down at the ocean’s edge, looking out at the waves, with a little Olivia by his side. I wish I could share that photo here, but my photos are on my computer at home, not the small one I’ve traveled with.

But mostly, when I come here, I see myself.

Several times, I’ve come here feeling lost, and I’ve run out to the ocean upon arriving and shouted at her. It’s like those moments you see in movies, where people in crisis look up at the sky and shout at God. I don’t shout at God. I shout at the ocean. I call her Ms. Pacific.

But this time, when I arrived here feeling so lost that those other times felt like nothing, I walked out to the ocean and stood there, at first having absolutely nothing to say. I walked for a bit, then turned and faced her again and said, “What the hell?”

I think I’ve said, “What the hell?” a bajillion times since the phone call on January 17^th, when I was told that Michael was in the ER after having been hit by a minivan.

I’ve struggled since his death. I’ve struggled with his loss. But I’ve also struggled with what felt like the loss of myself.

Am I still married? Am I still a wife?

Should I still be wearing my wedding ring? Is it a lie now? No longer a part of me?

Am I a widow? What an awful, awful word.

I don’t know how to do this. What the hell?

When Michael was hit by the minivan, I was writing under deadline to finish my next novel, Don’t Let Me Keep You, by March 1^st. I spent a lot of time in the ICU at the hospital, sitting next to a non-responsive Michael, talking to him, holding his hand. And so I set up a work station and I read the entire book to him, putting on my final touches, and finishing the book. I sent it off to the publisher. It will be released on October 3^rd.

And from that day forward, I didn’t write. Except for this blog. I tried. But my whole being was caught up with Michael, with his care, with being his advocate, being the power of attorney, and trying so hard to hold our lives together.

It wasn’t writer’s block. I knew what I wanted to write. I had ideas. But whenever I sat down at the computer, whenever I had a brief moment in time, all I could do was stare. And cry.

When Michael died, the advocacy turned into an amazing amount of work that had to be done. And it turned into such moments of heartache and stunned disbelief that it bent me double.

What the hell?

And so I came here.

When I’ve come here before, I’ve set aside every role that I’ve taken on and boiled myself back down to who I was as I grew up and realized the dreams and passions that were important to me. When I came here, I set aside the roles of small business owner, teacher, editor, community and writers’ advocate, wife, and even mother, except when Olivia traveled with me.

Everything moved behind me and waited for me back in Wisconsin. From the moment I got here and sat down in the writer’s nook, I felt the same thing, the same cloak, come over me as it did when I was in the fifth grade.

I was living in northern Minnesota. A new teacher came to town, teaching fifth grade English. Her name was Mrs. Faticci, an exotic name in the middle of a primarily Finnish community. And she introduced Creative Writing Thursdays.

I had no idea what that meant, but I biked to the Minute Mart by my house and bought a special blue spiral notebook. In black marker on the front, I wrote, Creative Writing. We didn’t have to have a special notebook for those Thursdays, but I knew I wanted something that set it aside from everything else, even though I didn’t know what it was. Creative Writing sounded as exotic and wonderful as my new teacher’s name.

That first day, Mrs. Faticci put a record on the record player. The song was “Oh, Shenendoah”. “Just listen to it and write what comes to mind,” she said. And so I did. Afterward, she had us each get up and read what we wrote. The kids wrote, “There’s a boat.” “I hear water.” “Floating.”

I got up and read a complete short story, with description, dialogue, characterization, you name it. And when I got to “The End”, the room was silent.

From the back, Mrs. Faticci whispered, “Oh my god, Kathie. You’re a writer.”

And that cloak fell on me with all the rightness of the world. It was like hearing my name.

When I came here, all those years, that cloak was the only thing I wore.

But I came here this year with my feet pulled out completely from beneath me. I was so lost.

I arrived on a Saturday. I spent Sunday sitting on the deck, looking at the ocean, but not always seeing it. I didn’t step into the writing nook until Monday. And it is stepping into – there is a step up to get into the nook.

I stepped up. I looked out at the ocean. And then, the next time I looked up, there were 20 pages of a new novel on my screen.

I felt the cloak. I wrapped it tight around me. I heard my teacher’s voice. And I felt so much relief, I can’t even begin to put it to words.

That evening, before putting my computer to bed for the night, there were also four new poems on the screen. One begins with the line, I don’t know how to do this widow thing.

What the hell?

I’ll figure it out. But one thing I do know… I am no longer lost. I’ve lost my husband and my heart aches with a hurt that feels like it will never end.

But I’m still here. Me. I’m here.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

For those who are looking for this week’s Moment Of Happiness, please know that I am on the Oregon coast this week, and so in a different time zone. I’m two hours behind where I normally am. The blog will be posted a couple hours later than normal, at 3:00 Oregon time.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Michael’s antique cash register is going to be on stage, in a play. Maybe several. And I know this would make him very, very happy.

Since Michael’s death, I’ve been on a cleaning bender. Make that a cleaning/straightening/clearing out bender. I want room in my rooms! I want space in my space! I want to open up a closet or a cabinet and be able to see clearly what’s inside, with room to add more if needed. I want to not feel crowded. I want…well, to breathe mostly. With all that’s happened this year, I’ve felt the walls closing in on me more than once.

Michael was an old time radio fan. He got his start in writing with old time radio drama. He fell in love with the genre soon after his father died, and his passion just kept growing. It didn’t take long before he decided to try writing them himself, and he had quite a bit of success. Some of his shows were internationally produced. He moved through the years from a gigantic closet full of cassette tapes of radio shows to flash drive after flash drive of mp3 recordings. And he collected old time radio paraphernalia, which takes the form of tabletop radios to full size floor model radios. These are scattered throughout the house. One is an RCA Victor radio/record player console, complete with the display protective covering on the turntable.

And many of them were gifts from me.

One oddity that stuck out was a working cash register from the early 1930s. I bought it for Michael for a Christmas present. He loved it, and often, when he walked by, he would hit the Sale button, just to hear it ring. There were times I’d pass by and notice random numbers sticking up in the glass display. I’d hit the Sale button too, just to make those numbers go back down, only to find more up again soon after.

A few of Michael’s radios are now in our off-site storeroom. A couple of the tabletop models have made their way to St. Vincent DePaul. But the cash register, the console, and one floor model radio were listed on Facebook’s Marketplace and CraigsList. I wanted to find owners that would love them as much as Michael did. I don’t love them as much; they deserve to be with people who really appreciate them, and Michael would want them with people like that too.

I mostly picked these three to sell because of their size and placement in my home. The cash register sat on top of the floor model radio, and they’re right in front of a window. Because of their placement, I can’t reach the window to open or close it without getting out a stepstool and climbing up. I would like to be able to reach the window with ease and without the threat of falling and breaking something – mostly me.

For a couple of weeks, there was no interest. Then one man stopped by, looked at all three, told me information I already knew, and invited me to his house to see his clocks. No. He left without purchasing.

Then I heard from a woman who was interested in the cash register. We went back and forth several times, and she mentioned that she was buying it for her brother’s business, which is to supply props to theaters for plays and productions. I swear I felt Michael lean over my shoulder, his breath in my ear, to read that email.

Because of his love for radio drama, Michael also loved the theatre. One of his favorite jobs, before he was downsized, was as an accountant for the Milwaukee Repertory Theatre. The job came with the perk of tickets to the shows, and we saw so many productions. On his lunch breaks, Michael would go to whatever theatre was having a rehearsal and he would sit in the theatre seats and listen.

It was one of his happiest jobs, surpassed only by his most recent, at the Milwaukee Area Technical College, where he was able to do accounting amidst a place of education and dreams. Well, teaching for AllWriters’ was right up there too.

But now…his cash register could live on in the theatre.

I told the woman about Michael, about who he was, and about what happened. At first, I thought she was shopping for the actual theatre where the play would be, and I told her I’d be happy to lend the cash register out for such a purpose. But then I heard about her brother’s new business. And she heard about my husband.

I understand what it’s like to start a new business. And so I leaned forward to read more closely too.

She called me the next day. “I talked to my brother,” she said, “and we’ve decided we need to get this cash register. Even if it doesn’t work out for this particular production, we want it to be on stage as many times as possible.”

I’ve had mixed feelings about selling these things, and I won’t sell them unless I feel like they’re going to places that Michael would approve of, and where the beloved items can be happy. But I turned over the cash register with a content heart.

The radio it sat on is still here, so I still can’t reach the window without a stepstool. But the window is fully exposed and the sun flows in. The cat now has room to jump on top of the radio and look out a new window. He’s happy. I’m happy. And I believe Michael can be happy too. The cash register is a star.

And I can breathe just a little bit easier.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

You know, this blog has always been about finding that Moment each week that made me smile. It’s not about gratitude; this isn’t a gratitude list. And the ultimate lesson from it, at least for me, since starting to write this in 2017, is that I have to take responsibility for my happiness. I have to look for it and I have to find it. It won’t just come to me.

This blog is also all about honesty. I don’t make anything up. Even though I am primarily a fiction writer, a novelist and a short story writer, what I write about here has happened, and sometimes I write about it even when it doesn’t make sense.

Which is why I have to say that, this week, a Moment of Happiness has been impossible to find. I spent most of last night and all day today (so far) raking my memory of everything that went on this week, trying to find a Moment, and I haven’t found one.

This absolutely bothers me. I feel like I’m not doing my job.

Last week, my daughter Olivia said to me, “I don’t understand why I don’t feel happy.”

“Sweetheart,” I said. “Your dad has only been gone (then) 7 weeks (8 weeks now). You’re in grief. Give it time.”

Words, maybe, that I should be saying to myself. Though I have been able to find a Moment every week of these now 8 weeks, until now.

I pondered over this through the night. At first, I thought it was maybe because of yet another go-round I had with the Assistant District Attorney assigned to our case. The following has happened since Michael’s accident on January 17^th, and his death on June 19^th:

1. I contacted the Milwaukee DA several times. He never answered me once.
2. I was finally contacted by an Assistant DA after Michael died. He told me that there would be no criminal charges against the driver, even though Michael died.
3. I found out the ADA never talked to any of the witnesses. I had a witness contact him, with a list of things the witness saw that were not included on the police report.
4. I discovered that the ADA didn’t even know what citations were given to the driver.
5. I discovered that the driver ran a red light and was speeding. But he was not cited for either of these things. He was only cited for failure to yield to a pedestrian. That’s a $73 fine.
6. The ADA also told me there is no vehicular manslaughter in Wisconsin. There is. There are two types: when the driver is under the influence of alcohol, and when the driver is negligent. This driver ran a red light while speeding, and he killed a pedestrian. I’d say that’s negligent.
7. The police did not do their job – they knew he ran a red light and he was speeding, but he was not given citations for these. The ADA made his decision about criminal charges without talking to anyone who was actually there during the accident, and without knowing what the police decided to do, or in this case, not do.

It’s very hard not to feel like no one who has the power to do something cares enough to do so. So let’s flip that last sentence. I feel like no one who has the power to do something cares enough to do so. They just want Michael to go away.

Well, the driver took care of that, didn’t he.

But there is something else too.

The day Michael died, I Googled “What do you need to do when a spouse dies?” I found a wonderful list that detailed, point by point, things that needed to be done, from planning the memorial service to all of the paperwork that needs to be filed and taken care of. Next to each item was a little box to check off when you accomplished the item.

I am a very goal-oriented person. This list gave me something to focus on, to achieve. One by one, I’ve gone through and checked off boxes. This week, I checked off the last two (with the exception of Social Security, which is done on Social Security’s time. They are calling me in September. So I have that little box half-checked off.). These two final items were to make sure that Michael’s name was removed from the voter registry, so that no one could steal his name and vote, and to contact the DMV and cancel his state ID. Michael didn’t drive, so he didn’t  have a license.

We had an election this week, so I went to vote and decided that would also be a good time to talk to whomever I needed to talk to and have Michael’s name removed. I arrived at City Hall with Michael’s death certificate with me. I went to vote first, and found that his name was already missing – there was just me and Olivia listed. While there wasn’t a blank spot, the whole page became blank for me then. Where was he? I voted, then went to talk to someone about it. It turns out that, at least here, if not in all of Wisconsin, the voter registry is connected to Social Security, and so when Social Security received the death certificate, everyone connected to SS was notified. So Michael was already removed.

But I felt bereft, in a weird way. He was removed without my touch, without my care, without my being able to make sure he was taken care of.

I went home shook.

Then I contacted the DMV. They told me I only had to email them Michael’s name, birthdate and deathdate. They said that the DMV was connected to the Department of Wisconsin Vital Records, so it likely was already taken care of, but this would verify it. I did, they verified it, and then they told me to destroy his ID card.

I have not yet been able to do so. Maybe because it’s the last thing on the list.

When my father died, I remember very well helping my mother plan the memorial service and the reception afterward. I watched her as she went through all the busy paperwork she had to do, and helped where I could. When the memorial service was held and the reception ended, I found myself standing at the front door of their house, looking out at the road. And I realized I was waiting for my father to come home, now that everything was done.

I think, in some ways, that’s what I’ve been doing. Goal-oriented – I’ve been achieving all that needs to be done, so then my life should go back to normal.

Which it won’t. I’ll achieve all the items, all the boxes will be checked off. But then what? Michael will still be gone.

A video of Michael, talking about his philosophy of teaching writing, came up in my Facebook Memories this week. I watched it, and it was the first time I heard Michael’s voice since right before his last day in hospice. On that day, he said, “I will never let you go,” while clasping me to his chest so hard in his hospice bed that we set off alarms. We both laughed.

I’ve been trying to help him to hold on. To never let me go. I’ve been trying to hold on too.

So this is all a very long way of saying there won’t be a Moment of Happiness this week. I am letting myself off the hook. And thank God for social media, which allowed me to hear my husband’s voice this week, and see his face, and see him animated and well and happy.

And, well, okay…I guess this is a Moment of Happiness. I am looking forward to next week, with the hope that I will have a Moment then.

Hope Always Rises, donchaknow.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

For those who want to see the video with Michael talking about his teaching philosophy, you can see it here (I hope):

 

 

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

While Michael Giorgio and I were happily married for 25 years (as of October 9^th, 2024, which I know is still coming up), there was one area where we were vastly different. And that’s in organization.

I am hyperorganized. Michael…wasn’t even close.

During the time that we dated, we had a long-distance relationship, Michael in Omaha and I was here, in Waukesha. Whenever I traveled to Omaha to see him, his apartment seemed spotless. But when I showed up to his apartment the weekend before he moved here, I got to see the truth, that he’d kept well-hidden.

For my visits, he took the detritus of everyday life (and then some, because Michael never threw anything away) and stuffed it under his bed, in the closet in the guest bedroom, in his storage unit, anywhere he could. What his place looked like after I left, I don’t know. But what I saw that weekend nearly made me call off the whole relationship. We seemed suddenly incompatible.

I have always been very neat and organized. There is a place for everything, and everything should be in its place. As a child, I organized my toys, storing them by size and levels of importance. In high school and college, I had a semester planner, which I filled out religiously. My notebooks, pens and pencils were all color-coordinated for each class, and organized on a shelf according to days of the week, and hours within the day. At college, as soon as I received a syllabus, I entered important days in the planner and I always had my papers finished at least two weeks before their due date.

Yeah, I was THAT girl.

Things got a little out of hand during my first marriage. I cleaned the house according to the day of the week: Monday, dust and vacuum the main floor. Tuesday, clean the bathrooms. Wednesday, clean the kitchen. Thursday, clean the basement (which included washing the appliances). Friday, dust and vacuum the main floor again. The hyperorganization extended to other areas of my life: I exercised according to the day of the week, advanced stepaerobics on Monday, Wednesday and Friday, weight training on Tuesday and Thursday, with upper body being Tuesday and lower body being Thursday, and weekends there was usually a brisk bike ride or walk. I joined Weight Watchers and lost 80 pounds and kept it off for over 10 years, mostly because I had one of those huge magnetic WW menu planners, and I loved checking off the little boxes for everything I put in my mouth. I also began to weigh myself at least 20 times a day and chart it on a graph hung on the door to the bathroom closet.

I am not totally blameless in the dissolution of that marriage.

I eventually had to let a lot of that go when I began to be known as a writer, when I started AllWriters’, and when I married Michael and we had Olivia.  I had to learn to drop everything and run when interruptions happened. And I have.

But I am still very organized. How else do you think I get as much done as I do?

So when Michael entered my life, and I didn’t throw it all away when I saw his apartment that fateful weekend, I had to sit down and figure out how we could balance this. How could we each have the freedom to be who we were?

It was hard at first. But eventually, we had it down to a science, once we built our condo and moved into it. Michael had “zones”, all of which occurred behind closed doors, either cabinet or closet, so that he could have his disorganization, and it wouldn’t wreck my organization.

When Michael was in the hospital for the last time and it was clear he wasn’t coming home, I began cleaning. And I discovered that Michael’s zones extended well beyond what I thought we’d chosen. The kitchen cabinets alone were a monument to that lack of willingness to throw anything out. A receipt for a pack of gum, bought in 2008. Expired spices, expired packets of soup mix and taco seasonings. Items he bought that he never used and were still in their original packaging.

And don’t even get me started on his clothes closet and what we called his hoarder’s closet.

But here’s the thing. Here’s where the moment of happiness comes in.

I know full well that my hyperorganization comes from a need to try to keep my life under control. From childhood through times in my adult life when I was under stress, when I felt under attack, I’ve cleaned and organized and then stood back and admired the neatness. At those times, a sense of calm comes over me, and I think, If I can get this (cabinet, closet, basement, credenza, bookshelf) under control, then I can extend that to the rest of my life. Even if that isn’t true, it still gives me a moment of peace and confidence and a sense of strength.

This has been totally true every day of my life since January 17^th. The night I came home from the ER, understanding that something horrible and life-changing happened, but not knowing yet just how horrible and life-changing it would be, I carried in the bags that they gave me of Michael’s things, which included the orange gym bag that he carried to and from work every day. I got home in the early morning hours and I was exhausted. But I sat down with his orange gym bag and cleaned it out.

And oh, the things I found.

An unopened package of balloons. A fidget toy, still in its wrapper too. A McDonalds Happy Meal toy. Empty packages from snacks. At least a dozen tiny notebooks. Receipt after receipt after receipt, the oldest from well before he had this particular job. Caps from pens. Pens without caps. They didn’t match.

And I cleaned it out and organized it, so it would be ready for him when he came home. When he came home and he recovered and he returned to work. Well, he did come home, for a time. He did recover, partially. And then he didn’t. He never returned to work.

But that night, cleaning that bag, I felt that sense of “I can do this,” come over me again.

In the seven weeks that Michael has been gone, I’ve cleaned every kitchen cabinet. I’ve cleaned the hoarder’s closet and clothes closet. I’ve cleaned out our dresser and the bathrooms. I’ve cleaned out bookshelves. I’ve cleaned and organized, and sometimes, I open every cabinet door in my kitchen, stand in the middle, and just admire it. The other day, Olivia pulled out a garbage bag for me from under the sink and I noticed the box with the garbage bags was pulled out of alignment. As she started to shut the door, I said, “Straighten the garbage bag box, please.” She rolled her eyes, but she did it. And I breathed a sigh of relief.

Seven weeks ago, when I opened that cabinet door, I couldn’t even see what was in there, it was so overstuffed. Now…a place for everything, and everything in its place.

And…I can do this.

So in a weird sort of way, Michael’s hoarding habit and lack of organization is helping me to cope with his death.

He is helping me still. From wherever he is, I bet he is laughing and saying, “See? I told you all that stuff would be useful someday!”

I can do this.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

This was one of those weeks where I had to remind myself why I started writing this blog in the first place, or at least, what I’ve learned while writing it. I’ve learned that happiness doesn’t just happen. You have to look for it. And that happiness doesn’t have to be big – sometimes it’s in the smallest of things.

After writing the blog every day for a year, back when it was called Today’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News, readers demanded and my publisher insisted that it become a book. Which it is: Today’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News; A Year Of Spontaneous Essays. Once, when I was presenting the book at a library, a reader asked me an unusual question. “What is your least favorite entry?” he asked.

I’d often been asked what was my favorite, and I had that all ready. But what was my least favorite? I believe my intelligent answer was, “Ummm…”

“It’s all right,” he said. “Take a minute to think about it.”

So I did. And eventually, I answered that it was one that I wrote about waiting in the drive-thru at Starbucks. I was in the convertible, and while I waited, the breeze picked up a crumpled straw wrapper and blew it all around me. It reminded me of a white moth, which brought me back to my childhood, when I considered moths to be butterflies.

A small moment. That particular blog, my least favorite, was a reminder that I had to consider today.

It’s been a hard week. I wrote about the AllWriters’ Annual Retreat last week, and that event, from Thursday through Sunday, was wonderful. It felt so good to be in my own groove, surrounded by people I love, and doing what I love. But it was also a four-day reminder that Michael is gone. Wherever I looked, he wasn’t. The hardest moment was when we took a break on Saturday afternoon for a reading. My faculty read, a special student guest read, and I read. It was my first time doing a reading since Michael’s death. And for the first time, I looked out into an audience and didn’t see him. He was always my cue – he let me know if I was reading too fast or too softly. Mostly, he gave me a thumb’s up.

There was no thumb’s up last Saturday.

Hard, hard, hard.

I also found myself trying to explain grief to our 23-year old daughter, whose first experience with death is losing her father. She wanted to know why she wasn’t feeling happy – six weeks after her father’s death. How to explain something so difficult, so ephemeral, so life-changing?

Hard, hard, hard.

Last night, right before I signed off of my computer, I gasped when a headline went by with Michael’s photo on it. An article was appearing in one of the local papers about his death and about the lack of punishment for the driver. I wasn’t expecting to see Michael, and suddenly there he was, and then he was gone.

Hard, hard, hard.

And then, overnight, I finally had a dream where I saw Michael. I’ve been waiting for this. But the dream was a nightmare. I dreamt I was picking him up from some special kind of rehab program. He was brought home with others on a bus. He walked toward me, carrying his walker, not using it, and as he got closer, he tossed it to the side. I was elated! He looked so good. But then he got silly and started to show off. He took a big pile of our daughter’s Squishmallows (if you don’t know what these are, look them up) and tied them all around himself with string. He couldn’t see where he was walking. And he didn’t see a big hole in the ground. Despite my yelling at him to step away, he stepped in and fell. The hole was deep enough that I couldn’t see him, but I knew he was gone. Right after he got well. I woke up in mid-scream.

Hard, hard, hard.

I also woke up wondering what the heck I was going to write about. How do you write about happiness in the middle of all this sadness?

You look for the small things.

I was walking back from Walgreens and my  neighbors, who live between my condo complex and Walgreens, were on their porch. They have a small yard, and this year, they planted a garden. You can barely see the grass for the cucumber and pumpkin leaves and vines. Orange pumpkins have begun to peek out from between the leaves.

They called me over, to ask how I was doing and how Olivia was doing. I gave what is now my standard answer: “It depends on the moment.”

“Have you learned to cook yet?” they asked and we both laughed. Michael was the cook in the family – I don’t know how, other than making a mean meat loaf, and also spaghetti and lasagna.

“Not really,” I said. I’ve been living on frozen meals, sandwiches, and Spaghetti-Ohs. Oh, and ice cream.

“Do you like cucumbers?” they asked.

I do. They handed me two lovely cucumbers. I know what to do with cucumbers!

I carried them home. At suppertime, I scrounged through my almost empty freezer and found a few pieces of chicken left in a box of Banquet frozen fried chicken. I put them in the oven. In my cabinet, I found a can of waxed beans, which I love, and I set them on the stove in a pot. Then I peeled one cucumber. Immediately, my kitchen was filled with that fresh scene of cucumber. I’ve often said someone should make an air freshener out of it. Unwilling to wait, I chomped on a couple slices as I arranged the rest on my plate like a pile of poker chips. I had some ranch salad dressing in my fridge, and I added a dollop as a dip.

Everything went on my plate. Chicken. Wax beans. Cucumber. I sat down at our island and I ate dinner like it used to be. Only now, it was by myself.

And oh, that cucumber. Fresh and crunchy. My parents used to have a garden, and our dinners during the summer always held a plate of cucumbers. Sometimes cut in poker chips. Other times cut lengthwise, and I would eat one big full-length piece like an ear of corn, with the seeds being the kernels.

It felt so good, sitting there, eating a regular meal. I had a book by my side to keep me company.

You look for the small things.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.